


Proper Officer

by derryderrydown



Category: Sharpe (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-14
Updated: 2009-11-14
Packaged: 2017-10-02 17:08:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/derryderrydown/pseuds/derryderrydown





	Proper Officer

Bloody women. Sharpe aimed a kick at a pebble and his frustration increased when he missed. Bloody, bloody women. He was remembering now why he'd stuck to whores. This time, his boot - scuffed, dusty and by no means the boot of a mess officer - connected soundly with the stone and sent it winging across the monastery's street.

The worst of it was, he understood why Teresa had backed away at the last moment. Rape wasn't a pretty thing and she'd had it tough. No surprise that she'd close herself up like that, forget she was a woman. And that she'd reached the point where she could look at a man like Sharpe, a common soldier for all the fancy uniform, and remember she was more than a fighter, it said a lot for her. Aye, well, he'd never doubted she was strong. If it took her time, it took her time.

With an impatient jerk he resettled his sword. Understanding didn't do anything to help the fact that he'd been looking forward to something more than a solitary wank. Didn't help the fact he was close to having trouble walking.

Bloody, bloody women.

* * *

"I thought you'd be with Miss Teresa, sir."

Harper's looming presence made Sharpe jump and his feet fell off the windowledge. "Jesus, Harper. Let a man know you're there." He turned away from the window of the room where he'd been billeted. "Man your size shouldn't be able to sneak like that."

"Learned it from my pappy, back in Ireland." Harper didn't smile but there was a lift to his face that Sharpe had already learned meant he was amused. "When we were out hunting Englishmen."

Sharpe wouldn't be surprised if it were true. "Out here, you use it for hunting Frenchies."

"Of course, sir."

"What do you want, Harper?" Sharpe turned his notice back to the street and let his irritation show.

"It's the men, sir." Harper rubbed his jaw, then eased to attention as he noticed Sharpe studying his reflection in the glass.

"Still want to go south, do they?" Sharpe's voice was hard.

"Well, they've, er, sent me to apologise for that little misunderstanding. On their behalf, as it were."

"Oh, aye." Sharpe swivelled in his chair and looked up at the Irishman. "And why should I forgive them for mutiny, Rifleman?" He   
stressed the rank, deliberately reminding Harper of the fact that he'd been a sergeant a few days before. "Shooting crime, that is."

"We're not used to having an officer of our own, sir. They've got used to doing what I tell them."

"Even when you tell them to mutiny. You inspire impressive loyalty, Harper." Sharpe's words dripped sarcasm.

"They didn't lay a hand on you, sir!"

"Not how I remember it, Harper. I distinctly remember Tongue hurling me on to them barrels, ready for you to lay into me. Didn't work, though. Did it, Harper?"

Harper swallowed hard and his hands twitched into fists. "No, sir," he said.

"And why's that, Harper?"

"Because Miss Teresa walked in and stopped us. Sir."

Sharpe shot to his feet and took a stride so he was face to face with the Irishman. By God, he was so used to being taller than everyone else that he'd forgotten Harper topped him by a good few inches. Making the best of it, he glared up. "No, Harper. Because I'm an officer. Maybe not a proper officer but an officer. And an officer who knows all your tricks and a few besides."

"With all due respect, sir, you'd never have beaten me."

"More mutiny, Harper?"

Harper grinned and let his bulk ease out of attention. "I'll never mutiny against you again, sir. You've got my word on that."

"Word of a worthless bogtrotter."

Harper's face hardened but he ignored the jibe. "Just seems fair to let you know, sir, that I'm a better fighter than you seem to give me credit for." Harper smiled down genially. "And, well, I have got the advantage of size."

"I've beaten bigger than you, Harper." Sharpe frowned at the memories and his voice softened. "In India, they've got holy men - jettis, they're called - who make you look like Perkins. They've got arms bigger than your thighs." He leaned closer. "I took down two of them. At the same time."

"Well, sir. They were foreigners."

Sharpe took a step back and looked up at Harper. Bugger it. This wasn't the way he'd have chosen to work off his frustration but it'd have to do. "Alright, Harper. Let's find a nice, quiet spot and work out which of us would have won."

Harper's face was a picture of innocence. "Now, sir. You can't be expecting your loyal serg-" He stopped. "Your loyal rifleman to pound the living daylights out of you."

"No, Harper. I don't." He paused and tilted his head. "But I expect you to do your damndest."

"Would that be an order, sir?"

Sharpe grinned. "Rifleman Harper, I order you to-" What was it the nobs called it? Oh, aye. "I order you to spar with me, for the purpose of improving our hand-to-hand fighting techniques. Will that do you, Harper?"

"Oh, yes, sir," Harper breathed. "That'll do me very nicely, sir."

* * *

Harper led the way to quiet corner of the monastery, what looked to be an abandoned kitchen garden. The earth was soft except for the occasional stone. Sharpe went down on one knee and ran a handful of earth through his hands. "Good spot, Harper." He grinned. "I don't want to hurt you too bad, after all."

"Pleased to hear it, sir." Harper had his back turned and was shucking off his jacket. His shirt was pulled with it and Sharpe was treated to a glimpse of the broad back.

Clearing his throat, Sharpe quickly turned away and started stripping. He fumbled with the baldrick for a moment before getting it over his head and his sword belt soon joined it on the floor.

"So, what are the rules of this, er, training session, sir?"

"Rules?" Sharpe was battling with his buttons. "There are no rules, Harper."

"You have no idea how glad I am you said that." The next moment, Sharpe's face was buried in the earth and Harper was pounding his kidneys. All Sharpe could do was lie there and take it but then Harper's weight shifted slightly and Sharpe twisted, heaved and managed to scramble out from under the Irishman.

Both breathing heavily, they circled each other in a wary crouch.

Harper was the same as him, Sharpe realised. Used to his opponents being smaller and lighter; used to using his weight. And that gave Harper the advantage. Sharpe spat, vaguely aware that blood was streaming from his lip and his kidneys were complaining. Now it was up to Sharpe to be quicker.

He lunged in, his entire weight behind the punch, but Harper sidestepped and Sharpe stumbled past. He whirled as fast as he could but Harper was quicker and Sharpe found his head buried under Harper's arm. He managed to keep his feet, despite Harper's attempts to kick them from under him, and, with a yell, hurled all his weight into Harper.

It was enough to knock Harper off balance but he stayed upright and tightened his grip on Sharpe. Gulping for breath, Sharpe hurled himself at Harper again but the Irishman stayed steady as he laid into Sharpe's ribs. Sharpe's vision was clouding as he fought for breath and, desperate, he let his body go limp.

"Sir?" Harper's grip slackened only slightly and Sharpe didn't respond. "Oh, Jesus. Sir?"

Sharpe forced himself to stay loose as Harper carefully lowered him to the ground. Though his eyes were closed, he could see the shadow as Harper leaned over him, blocking the sunlight.

"Sir?"

He waited until Harper's hand was on his shoulder and then he kicked, connecting solidly with Harper's kneecap. The Irishman collapsed and Sharpe was upright without realising it, his boot resting solidly on Harper's throat. "Do I win?" he asked softly but Harper grabbed his boot, heaved and Sharpe was sent sprawling.

He was up again in a split-second but it was long enough for Harper to regain his feet.

"That was a nasty trick, sir," Harper said, his voice full of reproach.

"No rules, Harper."

"No rules, sir."

And then Harper was in front of him, landing one punch after another without giving Sharpe time to recover. Sharpe tried to duck away but everywhere he went, Harper was there. His eyes were filled with blood and he couldn't see but his fist connected and it was enough time for him to stagger back and wipe the worst of the blood away. The cut was up in his hairline and he tried to push his hair back but the blood kept it plastered to his forehead. He wiped it again, then turned the gesture into a back-handed blow behind him, too light to cause any damage but Harper drew back and Sharpe was able to turn to face him.

"You need to get that seen to, sir." Harper's nose was running with blood and more leaked from the corner of his mouth as he spoke.

"Headwounds always bleed like a bastard. You should know that by now."

"I do, sir. But do you want Miss Teresa to see you like that?"

Sharpe spat more blood. "She knows what it's like to be a soldier, Harper. She's no shrinking violet."

Harper shrugged. "If you say so, sir." He was lunging before he'd finished the sentence but Sharpe was expecting it and managed to land a resounding blow as Harper went past. The Irishman staggered and, for a moment, it looked like he was going down but he pulled himself upright, apparently through willpower alone, and shook his head vigorously.

Sharpe echoed the movement, sending blood spattering, then followed up his blow to Harper. He feinted with his left, then his right connected solidly with Harper's jaw but Harper was gone before Sharpe's knee could reach his groin. Sharpe was expecting a moment to catch his breath but instead Harper was in close again. Sharpe lifted his leg to kick but Harper grabbed it and Sharpe found himself back on the floor.

It took him longer to get upright this time and his eyes were full of blood again. He tried to wipe it away but could still hardly see.

"Come on, sir. You're practically blind. Give it up."

"No." Sharpe fiercely wiped his face again but it had no effect.

"I'm not going to pound you into the ground when you can't even bloody well see."

"Scared of a crippled man, Harper?"

Sharpe sensed the movement and ducked in time for Harper's fist to swing harmlessly over his head. Then he charged forward but Harper wasn't where he was expecting and he stumbled to the ground.

"Damn it!" He mopped at the blood again but his jacket sleeve was already sodden. "Come here, you bastard."

"Give it up, sir." Harper was pleading now.

"No!" Blinking frantically, Sharpe managed to clear his vision enough to see the vague shape of Harper walking towards him. Sharpe waited until Harper was close, then launched himself at Harper's knees.

He missed.

"For the love of Christ, just give it up, sir."

"I said, no." Sharpe heaved himself upright. "Bloody stupid paddy," he muttered.

"A man could get offended at that sort of language." Harper's voice was muffled and Sharpe heard him spit. "Alright, sir. If you're not going to give it up, I will."

"I'm not going to have you let me win."

"Oh, I'm not, sir," Harper said. "You're so bloody pigheaded that you would have won. Too thick to know when you're beaten, if you'll forgive me saying so."

Sharpe laughed and breathed in sharply at the pain. "Aye, just this once. You give in, then, Harper?"

"Aye, sir. I give in."

"I'm glad to hear it." Sharpe blinked and squinted through the blood. "Now - do you reckon you could steer me to a pump? Preferably one without an audience."

* * *

Sharpe stayed under the bitter cold of the pump until his eyes were clear enough of the clotted blood for him to see. He blinked up at Harper, manning the pump with enthusiasm. "A suspicious man might think you were enjoying that."

"Me, sir? To be sure, I'm just doing my duty."

"Good job I'm not a suspicious man, ain't it?" Sharpe said. "Your turn now. You don't look much better than me."

Harper obediently stuck his head under the pump and Sharpe sent the water cascading over him. When Harper emerged, he shook his head vigorously and Sharpe was relieved to see that it was only water that went flying.

"Did I break your nose?" he asked.

Harper felt it carefully. "Bruised like buggery but not broken." He grinned cheerfully. "Good job. Couldn't have you shattering my good looks."

Sharpe laughed and felt his own nose. "Shame you didn't break mine. Might have straightened it."

"Ah, well, sir. We can't all be blessed with such a handsome face as mine."

"That we can't. Oh, bugger." Sharpe studied his jacket with dismay. "I should have been a redcoat. Doesn't show the blood."

"Bit of cold water, sir, and it'll come up fine. Here." Harper helped him out of the jacket and dropped it in the trough beneath the pump. "If you don't have a spare shirt, better put that in, too."

Obediently, Sharpe pulled his shirt off, wincing slightly as it tugged at the clotted blood in his hair. He dunked it in the trough and stirred it round to wet it thoroughly. "Yours isn't much better, Harper."

"But I'm only a rifleman, sir," Harper said. "People don't expect a rifleman to be clean."

"I do."

"You're an exception."

"I'm your bloody commanding officer. Or are we going to have to establish that all over again?"

Harper regarded him steadily for a long moment. "No, sir." He pulled his own shirt off and dumped it in the trough.

"Thank you." Sharpe bent over the trough and stirred the clothes up.

"Jesus Christ!"

Sharpe glanced over his shoulder. "What?"

"What bastard did that to your back?"

"The flogging or the sword? Sword was a French dragoon." He didn't say it was one of the dragoons who'd tried to kill Wellesley but he could see Harper making the connection. "Flogging was thanks to a sergeant in India." His voice was cold, discouraging further questions.

After a moment, Harper joined him at the trough. "We're not going to get them clean in here, sir."

"We'll do what we can." He glanced at Harper and grinned. "Nobody expects much of an officer up from the ranks. Not even the ranks."

"You've proved us wrong, sir. And glad we are of it."

"Never had you pegged as an arselicker, Harper."

"I speak as I find, sir." Harper spoke with elaborate dignity as he heaved Sharpe's heavy jacket out of the trough. "We caught it before it dried. Much easier to get the blood out."

"It'll take bloody forever to dry, though."

"Then you'll have to go in to dinner damp, won't you. Better damp than covered in blood." Harper frowned. "You'll need to do something about your face."

"You too."

Harper waved that away. "We'll get you back to your quarters and I'll raid Hagman's pack for his butchering kit. Clean you up in privacy." He was wringing out their clothes as he spoke. He handed the least bloody shirt to Sharpe. "There you go, sir."

"That's your shirt, Harper."

"Oh, it'll fit you good enough, sir."

"Maybe, but mine won't fit you."

"Close enough, sir."

"Stop bloody 'sir'-ing me every five seconds."

"Yes, sir."

Laughing, Sharpe flung the sodden shirt at Harper. "You're a damn fool, Harper."

"If you say so, sir," Harper said, smiling.

Sharpe retrieved the other shirt and wrung it out. "It'll do. It'll be under my jacket." He slipped it on and tugged at it irritably when it clung to him. "You going to insist on nursemaiding me, Harper?"

"Indeed I am, sir."

"Then I'll see you in my quarters."

* * *

Sharpe made it back without being seen by anybody other than an incurious monk. Peaceful life, being a monk, Sharpe reflected. Perhaps they thought soldiers always went around covered in blood.

He stripped off his shirt and hung it on the back of the chair to dry out a little more. It had managed to accumulate more blood during the short trip to his quarters and he swore softly at the sight. There was no mirror in the room but he probed gently at his eye and wasn't too surprised that his fingers came away wet with blood. Still, it was a couple of hours till he'd be expected to present himself for dinner. Plenty of time to get mopped up and looking vaguely respectable.

There was a comb on the washstand and he started to carefully tease out the worst of the dried blood from his hair while he stared out the window. The blood scattered black on the windowledge and he absently swept it onto the floor. Then the wound started bleeding fresh and he tossed the comb back onto the washstand.

The water in the pitcher was clean, if cold, and he splashed some into the basin. He was becoming a proper officer if he couldn't even take care of a few bumps and bruises without a sergeant to help him. Rifleman, not sergeant, he corrected himself. Even though Harper was the kind of man who could have been born a sergeant. Sharpe had a spare neckcloth in his pack and he dunked the black cloth in the basin then began rinsing the blood from his face.

It was crusted under his nose and round his mouth and it stung when he eased it away. The stinging was something of a relief, distracting him from the dull ache of his back and ribs. He took a deep breath, testing, but the pain didn't get much worse so he concluded he hadn't snapped any ribs. Strange. The way Harper had been laying into him the other day, he should have walked away from this scrap with far more than a few aches.

His thoughts were interrupted by a loud knock. "Harper, sir."

"Come in." Was that the proper officerly response? Bugger it if it weren't, Sharpe thought.

"Got some spirits from Hagman." Harper, his wet shirt clinging to him, took a look at the basin of water, now decorated with blood, and hurled the contents out the window. He splashed some of the spirits into the basin then added more water. "Not that I'd recommend drinking any of it. Now, sir, you sit down and let me take care of this."

Sharpe obeyed.

"By the way, sir." Harper cleared his throat. "The sword cut on your back has opened up again."

Sharpe swore and tried to look at his own back.

"It's not looking too bad but I'll give it a splash of this." Harper raised the bottle

Remembering the pain when the cut had been sewn up, Sharpe swore again.

"Is that any language to use in front of a good, Catholic altar boy?" Harper asked absently, concentrating on smoothing out the blood from Sharpe's hair.

"Ow!" Sharpe jerked backwards. "Be careful, you great lout."

"Hold your breath."

"Why?"

Harper's only response was to up-end the bottle over Sharpe's head.

"Jesus Christ!" Sharpe leapt out of the chair. "You could have bloody warned me!"

"You'd never have sat still for it. Now, lie down so I can get at your back." Harper smiled angelically. "Sir."

Still glaring suspiciously, Sharpe lay down on the bed. "How much has opened up again?"

"Not much, sir. Little more than an inch. The stitches are a bit far apart, that's all."

"They weren't putting any bloody more in. And no more of that stuff. Not neat."

"No need for that, sir. It's pretty much clean." After a few moments, Harper sat back. "All done, sir."

Sharpe sat up. "Thanks, Harper." He paused. "Patrick?"

"Harper, sir."

Sharpe considered it for a moment. "Aye, you're right. Harper." He stretched and rolled his shoulders. "You've got a punch like a carthorse's kick."

"Thank you, sir. Very good of you to say so."

"Sit down." Sharpe pulled his shirt over his head. "It's my turn to play butcher." He glared at Harper as his head emerged. "And don't bother arguing."

"Only a fool would argue with an officer."

"Then you're a fool, Harper."

They lapsed into silence as Sharpe cleaned up the mess of Harper's face. Eventually, he dumped the neckcloth into the basin. "Right," he said. "That's as good as you're going to get. Time to work on the rest of you."

"No need for that, sir. I'm not hurt."

Sharpe glanced at Harper's shirt, marked over his chest with streaks of fresh blood. "Don't be dafter than you have to be. You're still bleeding."

"It's just a scratch."

"Scared of your medicine, Harper?"

"No, sir." Harper stood at something approaching attention, his eyes fixed forward.

"Or is it that you're shy? Eh?" Sharpe grinned at the notion of a bashful soldier.

Harper didn't reply and Sharpe's expression hardened.

"I'll make it a direct order if I have to."

"I'll get Hagman to check me over, sir."

"Oh aye? And what'll the explanation be?"

"He won't ask. Sir."

"Oh, for Christ's sake, Harper." Sharpe resisted the urge to kick the wall. "Just tell me the sodding truth."

Harper's approximate attention turned into the real thing. "I don't think it's a good idea for me to be undressed with you, sir."

"What the hell do you mean by that?" Sharpe wasn't sure if he was angry or amused by what he thought Harper was implying. "Well? I asked you a question, Rifleman Harper, and I damned well expect an answer."

Harper swallowed. "Fact of the matter is, sir, you're a good-looking man."

Sharpe blinked. "What the devil's that got to do with anything?"

"And, well." Harper heaved a massive sigh. "I don't quite trust myself, sir."

Sharpe blinked again and stared at Harper. For a long moment, his brain refused to process the information and then he laughed out loud. "Don't worry, Harper. I won't tell anybody if you make improper advances. Come on. Let me clean you up."

Harper's mouth twisted but he pulled his shirt over his head and lay face-down on the bed. It didn't take Sharpe long to clean up the few scrapes on Harper's back. "All right, Harper," he said, rinsing the neckcloth. "Let's have at the nasty one."

"Really, sir. I'd rather you didn't."

"Don't be such a bloody idiot, Harper. I were a sergeant, you're not going to shock me." He grinned. "Completely unshockable, me."

Harper shifted on to his back but kept his gaze fixed on the window. With a sigh, Sharpe sat down on the bed and began to wash the dirt and blood from Harper's chest with businesslike strokes. "If you can't cope with this, how come you had no problems cleaning me up?"

"It's the difference, sir, between touching and being touched." Harper closed his eyes. "Touching's good but being touched is better."

Sharpe nodded slowly, thinking of Teresa. It had felt good touch her, to kiss her neck and feel the softness of her skin. It would have felt ten times better to be touched in return. "Aye. I can see that." Unconsciously, his touch had gentled and he jumped when Harper's hand closed over his wrist. He nearly pulled away but managed to still himself and looked up at Harper.

The Irishman was studying him seriously. "Please, sir. Don't do it like that." Harper managed a half-hearted smile. "It's not fair on a man."

It'd be good to be touched, Sharpe thought. And if it weren't Teresa's touches, well, she and Harper were both tall, both had curly black hair. Both had daft accents. Beyond that, he was stuck trying to compare Harper's breadth to Teresa's whipcord strength and the corner of his mouth curled up in amusement.

"And it's not fair to laugh at him for what he can't help."

"Eh?" Sharpe frowned. "Weren't that, Harper." Harper's hand was still on his wrist as Sharpe continued wiping at the cut. It was clean by now but he had no particular desire to pull away. He rested his other hand on Harper's chest. "You're right, it's good to touch." His left hand stroked further down Harper's chest. "Is it better to be touched?" He could feel Harper's heart pounding, the skin becoming damp with sweat under his hands and it felt good to have this sort of power over a man, to be able to bring pleasure with the hands that had brought Harper pain and Teresa fear.

"Yes, sir," Harper whispered.

"Why don't you show me?"

Harper swallowed and his grip on Sharpe's wrist tightened. "It's against regulations."

"Bugger regulations." Sharpe knelt on the bed and straddled Harper's waist. "Show me."

Harper closed his free hand over Sharpe's left wrist, then moved both hands up Sharpe's arms, pushing the shirtsleeves up. His thumbs traced a pattern on the underside of Sharpe's forearms.

Sharpe's own breath was coming harsher. "More, Harper." He managed to stay silent for a moment longer but then a desperate, "Please," burst from his mouth and he dropped his head, embarrassed.

Harper's hands stilled and Sharpe could feel him swallow. "Gladly, sir." Sharpe shut his eyes when Harper let go of his arms and began to tug his shirt up. "Might be easier if we get this off you, sir."

It wasn't normally this complicated to remove his shirt but his head got tangled up and he was sure he heard it rip as he yanked it off. He didn't bother checking before he chucked it across the room.

"Lie down, sir?" There was just enough of an inflection in Harper's voice to make it a question but Sharpe treated it as an order. The bed was small for the two of them but Harper twisted to his side and there was just room enough to lie close together. Close together, Sharpe decided, was good. "You alright, sir?" Harper asked.

"I'll let you know if I'm not."

Harper was propped on one elbow and his other hand rested in the small of Sharpe's back, the weight of it pressing them closer. Other than that, he made no move.

"What's the matter, Harper?"

Harper's smile was reluctant. "I'm trying to work out if you'll hit me if I do what I was thinking of."

"Try it and see."

"Very well, sir."

Sharpe was too startled by Harper's hand sliding down to his arse to react when the Irishman moved to kiss him. Then he was glad that he hadn't reacted because by heck, Harper knew what he was doing. Sharpe threw his arm across Harper's shoulders, pulling him in closer. Harper's response was to increase the pressure on Sharpe's arse, pushing their groins together.

God, it was embarrassing, but he was moaning into Harper's mouth and, when Harper broke the kiss and began nipping down his neck, Sharpe let out something suspiciously close to a whimper.

"That's it, sir," Harper murmured.

Sharpe swallowed down the cry that threatened to escape when Harper slid his thigh between Sharpe's legs, a solid mass for Sharpe to grind against, but he flung his head back and it connected with the wall with a solid thud.

Harper's laughter was slightly choked. "Try not to bring the place down."

"Aye, Harper," Sharpe managed, then let out a groan as Harper moved away slightly.

"Don't worry, sir," Harper said and Sharpe suddenly wasn't worrying because Harper's hand was down his trousers, wrapped round his dick, and this was better than when a whore did it. Sharpe's breath was coming in gasps as Harper cradled him against his shoulder. "That's it, sir. Come on, now, sir," Harper crooned and Sharpe had a fleeting thought of how ridiculous it was for Harper to be calling him 'sir' at this point and then he was coming and he had to bite down on Harper's shoulder to stop himself crying out.

"You're right, Harper," Sharpe finally managed to say. "It is pretty damn good to be touched."

"Yes, sir." Harper was regarding him with a satisfied expression.

"Needs to be a fair comparison, though. Don't you reckon?"

Harper's eyes widened and he swallowed. "No need for that, sir."

Sharpe's only response was to unbutton Harper's trousers. He moved deliberately, his gaze on Harper's face. The Irishman didn't speak but his eyes were desperate. "It's alright, Harper."

"You don't need to do this."

Sharpe half-smiled. "As I said, needs to be a fair comparison."

Harper's exclamation was part-laugh, part-sob as Sharpe reached his goal. "Always said you weren't a proper officer. Catch one of them bastards worrying about fairness."

It wasn't that different to doing himself, Sharpe decided. The angle was odd and he knew he'd get a cramp if he had to keep going for long but that seemed unlikely. And it was strangely satisfying, bringing this much pleasure to somebody with nothing but a movement of his hand. Suddenly grateful, he leaned down and closed his mouth over Harper's.

Harper groaned and Sharpe felt him convulse as he came. Sharpe considered breaking the kiss but Harper rested his arm over Sharpe's   
shoulders and it still all felt good. He pulled away just enough to speak. "They're both bloody good, Harper."

"Aye, sir." Harper shifted beneath him and that felt good too.

"We've got another couple of hours."

"Yes, sir."

And that was enough to be going on with.


End file.
